Thin Line
by FeatheredFiend
Summary: •Because he doesn't want to admit he has been dying without the attention, because this is not a romance novel• LazardTseng, TsengLazard, RufusTseng. χThree Lies, Three Truths, Six Momentsχ


_Title: Thin Line  
Fandom: Final Fantasy  
Author: Feathered Fiend  
Characters: Tseng, Lazard D., Rufus S., Zack F.  
Genre: Angst  
Rating: NC-17  
Status: One Shot, Complete  
Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy, else things would have been a lot different.  
Warning: There will be speak of sexual intercourse between men. There is also character death and can be viewed as a darkfic. You have been warned.  


* * *

_

**.**_oo1_Lie**.**

* * *

His bare finger brushed against the ashen exposed flesh of the other male; blue met chocolate eyes, the blond hovering over the raven haired man. Neither said a word as the caresses continued, the fair haired director could feel the slight shivers of pleasure—_maybe even disgust, but neither would admit it_—and the corner of his own lips twitched up at the sensation. It was almost as if he belonged above this man, simply touching his light flesh—_but he knew better, this wasn't his place, he didn't belong in this situation_.

When this thought strikes him, he feels his grin wither from his expression—_he hopes that the other man doesn't notice_. Obviously the younger does notice—_he is trained to_—and aggressively leans upward, capturing the warm lips of the blond with his cooler ones. There's a grunt from the fair haired man, not surprise or pleasure but confusion. This was not how they played their game, the sport they had been playing since both men had met and found lies and truth within one another. Still, the young director finds himself returning the gesture and a new game begins.

There is a fight, as they begin, over command—_there can only be one _superior _in these ranks_—and like many battles there is blood—_because the raven haired man has one hell of a bite_. A few bites and scratches later, the blond has the other man's head shoved against the floor—_somehow they had ended up on the floor, probably from the wrestling_—and the navy uniform is throw to the side. He isn't sure how it was pulled off, the other man is obviously stronger then he is, but he won't question it as he begins the ritual that both had become so accustom to.

It's not romantic, there's not a single ounce of love that follows—_because they're not romantic and it isn't love_. It's angry—_because they are angry, angry at the world, at themselves,_ who knows—and it's rough—_because _he _doesn't know how to be gentle_. There is pleasure, grunts, and groans—_because it wouldn't be sex without it_—but there is pain—_because that's all they know_. After they are finished—_when there's no more angry, the numbness returns after a moment of _satisfaction—the blond rolls to the empty space beside the other male, staring up at the ceiling.

Raven hair is pulled back in a ponytail, the paler of the two stands without a word and begins to gather his clothes. Azure eyes just watch, there is nothing more he can do—_because he does not need the other to stay, their game was finished now_. It doesn't take the other man long to dress, he begins to head towards the door but is stopped—_which is not part of the game, neither are sure if they like all these new add-ons._ "You leave so soon because I am not **him**."

"No," the brown eyed man murmurs while staring ahead—there is no reason to look back, this is not a romance novel, this is real. He continues his lie—_it is well rehearsed_—with an even tone, "I am always on call, I cannot leave my station for long. I have wasted enough time, I need not upset the President."

The blond doesn't cringe, doesn't stare. He just nods—_because this is all well rehearsed_—and stands, finding his own clothes and dressing. He hears the door shut, feels the room grow colder—_just like it always does_—and finds himself fixing his hair in order to head to his own office. He puts on a charming smile—_one that is well prepared_—and uses a cologne—_one that his sexual friend produced one day_—to cover up the smell of sex, then leaves—because that's all he can do.

_

* * *

_

**.**_oo1_Truth**.**

* * *

Azure eyes watch the scene playing out, observing the way the two men interacted with one another. The pup has a way with people—_he can't say that he wasn't jealous, because he is_—and it seems to even have an effect on the blond's bedmate. He studies the whining and the pouting the young second class presented to all that were in the room—_because that's what the boy does, he too innocent for much else_—and notices the way the raven haired Turk arches a brow—_he knows what this means, yet he still feels a ping of fret in his soul_. He makes a comment—_one that _almost _made the director grin_—then the boy responses with pleads.

There was a smirk from the raven haired man—_one that made the blond's stomach turn in despair, because he knows that grin all too well_—and brown eyes turn to icy blues of the director. He narrows his own eyes, as if tempting the man to do what he was sure was on his mind—_because he is a man, a lonely man that requires some sort of _attention_, and the blond knows this for the reason that he is the same_. There is something dark in those eyes as they turn back to the boy, a faint chuckle echoing through the air from the brown eyed man. The fair haired man's blood boils—_because no matter what, the raven haired Turk is _his _and not the puppy's_—as there is a gentle smile—_probably faked anyway, but not the point_—sent to the youngest person in the room.

"I will meet you at the helicopter in twenty minutes, say your farewells to your companions." There is no emotion in the crisp tone of the Turk—_because the raven haired beauty was not one for such things_—and the other dark haired male nodded, quickly turning to the blond for dismissal. He is granted permission and exits, leaving the two partners—_not _lovers_, because this is not a romance novel_—alone. Blue meets dark brown, the standing man gracefully approaches the desk of the director—_who is a bit jealous at the fluid movements of the other man, but will never admit such a thing_.

There is a silent—_like there normally is after their games, but this wasn't part of the game_—and it stays for quite some time. The director is sure it was at least five minutes, while the Turk is certain that it was only a few. "Director."

"Yes?" The blond barely makes eye contact—_because suddenly the ring from his coffee cup is more interesting, oddly enough matching the eyes of his _partner.

"**Director**," the raven haired man speaks again—_because he wants the man to look him in the eye_. He gets his wish—_but suddenly wishes he didn't, because the jealousy and fear in those blue eyes remind him of himself_—so he offers a smirk—_one that is real, unlike the forged one given to the puppy_. "You are jealous."

"I wouldn't call it that," he comments dryly. He wishes the other wouldn't have noticed—_because jealousy was not part of the game_—but he knows that wishes do not come true. "I am merely looking out for my men."

"I have never hurt you." He knows what the blond meant—_because he knows that the man is lying, even though this is not part of the game_.

The blond defenses himself—_because he knows the other knows_; "I have the scars!"

"Because you like to play dangerous games, Director, just like the one we play, just like the one you play with the company," he responses without emotion—_because he is a Turk and he cannot have them_. He can feel the heated glare from the other and doesn't take it to heart—_because he knows that the blond thought his other games were a secret_—and still wears that smirk. "Do not fear, I will not allow you to become another _crossed _out name."

He doesn't know why he doesn't leave it at that—_because he wants to know that maybe there were strings attached now_—but he stands from his chair, a white gloved hand reaches out. It nabs the tie around the Turk's neck, pulling him close so that their lips are nearly touching—_because he wants to get the full attention of the Turk._ "Why is that?"

"Because our games are becoming a routine I am not willing to break yet."

The blond is accepting of this—_because this is not their game, and they will only lie to one another when playing_—and releases the Turk. The raven haired beauty smirks as he turns, straightening his tie and taking his leave. The fair haired male seats himself, resting his elbows on his desk and head on his laced fingers—_because now he has to think, because now the game might be changing_._

* * *

_

**.**_oo2_Lie**.**

* * *

Slender fingers brushed against the scars that littered pallid flesh, blue eyes focused solely on the blemishes of the other man. He could feel the tightening of muscles—_because the skin was still tender, no matter what the raven haired beauty said_—and felt his heart drop—_because he had been the one to give the mission_. He didn't lift his gaze to lock with the coffee brown eyes—_because it was too painful to know that he was the cause of this_—and he didn't stop tracing the disfigurements. He hadn't known about the incident right away—_because this was only about sex, not love_—but had known something was wrong when two of their meetings were a no-show for the Turk.

It wouldn't be until a week later, when he was reviewing the report fully that he found out why—_because he was a fool and sent only two to deal with Genesis_. It had finally hit him why Genesis cast him sinister grins during their private meetings and the unusual glances. Two days later—_to be exact, today_—when the man came to him and wanted to play, he made an excuse—_because he was tired, but in truth, it was guilt_—but still the man would not leave. He claimed the bed—_because he knew it was a lie_—and removed his jacket and dress shirt, leaving curious azure eyes to spy battle wounds.

Slender fingers twitched over scars, the young director licks his lips slowly and tried to find a way to break the silence—_because he didn't feel like playing their game and the silence was getting to him_. He felt the man shifted under his touch, his muscles flexing as he bent his body to capture the sweet tasting lips—_because the Turk loves the taste of coffee even though he never drinks the liquid_. There is no fighting, no movement from the blond as he just allows to bruise his lips, like the fair haired man had done to the other so many times before. He doesn't pull away—_because he's afraid that if he does, the raven haired beauty will never return to him_—but doesn't replace the gesture with his own—_because they are both growing weaker, the Turk because of his wounds and the director because of his stupidity_.

The raven haired man grows irritated by the lack of attention—_because its all he wants_—and pushes the man away, glowering at him like he is in the wrong—_because he is, he isn't playing the game._ He sits up, practically hovering over the blond and giving that heated glared that he saves for moments like this. "What is wrong with you," the Turk growls at the blond—_because he doesn't know what else to do_. "Why will you not participate?"

"You're hurt." The blond frowns up at the other—_because he knows this is against the rules, but he doesn't rightfully care_—and narrows his azure eyes at him.

"I am not going to break," the other man hissed. "I am not fragile."

There is a silence—_because the director knows the Turk is lying, he is more fragile then he would never admit_—and the two seem to stare heatedly at one another—_because the Turk is angry and the director is sorry_. The blond doesn't realize he's moving until he feels his lips slam against the cold ones of the raven haired beauty—_because he doesn't want to admit he has been dying without the attention, without the sex, because this is not a romance novel_. The war begins—_like it always does_—with bites and scratches, licks and brute force on whom shall be the leader—_because there can only be one in command_.

The blond finds his face against the blood stained floor—_because he weaker now, because he doesn't want to hurt him_—clothes gone and his partner's cool flesh against his. He doesn't fight as he is angrily taken advantage of—_because he knows this is not romance, because he knows the other is furious_. He wants to scream, to cry out, but he doesn't, he just takes the beating and the biting, the anger. He digs his fingers into the white carpet, he bites his lip until it bleeds—_because he doesn't want to scream, he doesn't want to ruin the moment of release for his partner_.

When the satisfaction hits and disappears—_because this is not romantic_—the Turk removes himself, standing at his full height. There is no words at clothing is gathered and the raven haired man dresses himself—_because he cannot stay here any longer, he knows something is wrong_. He doesn't even look back at the blond—_because it hurts_—and makes his way to the door. He doesn't pause, even when the blond calls after him—_because he doesn't want him to leave_—and makes a quick exit, leaving the director on his own. In that mere moment the executive manager knows that something is wrong—_because his partner had stopped before, because he knows that the other noticed his weakness._ It would be a lie to say that he wasn't frightened—_because they are technically why he is okay with it, he will lie through his teeth._

_

* * *

_

**.**_oo2_Truth**.**

* * *

His gloved fingers tangle within the blond locks of his hair—_because he misses the way the Turk tugged at it_—and a sigh of frustration passing over his lips—_because he doesn't know what else to do._ In his other hand a pen, he quietly tapped it against his desk as a frown took over his face. Those beautiful blue eyes, always hidden behind the thin frames of his glasses, stare ahead with that normal calculating look within them—_because this is the day._ There was no one else in the room—_because he was afraid and does not need his men around_—and if someone were to enter, they would quickly be dismissed—_because today is the day and he cannot be held back_.

He flinches and the pen drops from his hand—_because he can't stop the trembling anymore_—it starts rolling across the desk and leaving him abandoned with his thoughts. He doesn't reach for it—_because it would be worthless, he would just drop it again_—and turns his gaze to the door, upon hearing it open and assumes it to be the silver General—_because he is worried, the blond knows_. Weak azure orbs meet that of stern brown, the director suddenly wishes he had some say in this—_because he doesn't want the man here_—and turns his gaze away. He hears the footsteps of the man, and soon his eyes catch sight of navy blue.

"I locked the door," the Turk announced—_because this isn't their game and he doesn't know exactly what to say_. He frowns when the man doesn't reply, just turning his gaze away from him—_because he is important, because he deserves to be gazed at_. "Executive Manager."

"What is it?" His tone is dry and weak—_because he's losing everything, because this is not the game_. His eyes lift and turn to him, his gaze stern and no longer holding the charm they once were—_because he is not charming anymore_.

"You are going to tell me the truth," he speaks calmly—_because this is not the game_. "What is going on with you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't lie to me. You have not answered my calls, nor have you answered the door." The raven haired man doesn't even flinch at his own words—_because this is not the game, because he is numb_. "It has been weeks, have you grown tired of the game?"

The blond frowned—_because he doesn't want to tell the truth_. "No."

"Then what is it," the Turk presses—_because he has to know_. He gets no answer so he begins to study the man, frowning while he takes notice to the trembles of hands and the blond's body in general. He moved behind the desk, a hand wrapping around the wrist of the blue eyed male—_because if he has to tell the truth, he's missed the warmth the other provides_. However, this very warmth seems to be lessened then before—_because even the Turk knows something is wrong_. "Director, what is wrong?"

"I'm dying." His voice is vacant of emotion and eyes remaining solely on the surprised Turk—_because this isn't their game, this isn't a lie_. He stands on shaken legs and gently pulls himself from the loosen grasp of the raven haired beauty—_because he is not good enough to be touched by such a man_. "You should leave."

Coffee brown eyes stare into icy blues, the raven haired man feels something burn in his chest—_because he is losing_. "Director…"

"Leave."

There is no room for argument—_because this isn't romance_—and the Turk has no other options. He leaves without saying a last truth to the blond and doesn't receive one from the man—_because this isn't their game and lies work better in a moment like this_. There would be no more games, no more lies between them; this is the last time they see each other—_because they played a dangerous game and this isn't a love story_. The blond would leave in the night and the raven haired beauty does not follow—_because that's not part of their rehearsed roles, because pain is all they know_.

_

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**.**_oo3_Lie**.**

* * *

There is a fight, as they begin, over command—_there can only be one superior in these ranks_—and like many battles there is blood—_because the raven haired man still has one hell of a bite._ A blond with blue eyes shoves the Turk's face into a pillow, growling like a beast—_because he doesn't like the games that were once played_—and the navy uniform is thrown to the side. He knows why he is in this position—_because they look so much alike, brothers normally do_—and why he gives up—_because he doesn't want to lose this one too._ It is a ritual that the raven haired beauty had become used to years before it began with the younger—_because it happened due to his attraction to him. _

It is still not romantic, there is still not a single ounce of love that follows—_because they are not romantic and it isn't love_. It is still angry—_because they are angry_—and it's rough—_because the blond doesn't know how to be gentle._ There is pleasure, grunts, and groans—_because it wouldn't be sex without it_—and there is still pain—_because that's all the Turk knows_. As the raven haired man growls into the pillow, there are flashes—_for the first time in years_—of another partner, one that fell from the grace he was born with. When the end is nearing—_because the angry is running out and satisfaction is showing its head_—something happens that hasn't for far too long.

He screams—_more like shouts to the blissful lifestream_—a name that does not belong to the man in control. It finishes in that moment, the blond rolls to the empty space beside the raven haired man. The pale Turk turns his uncertain gaze to his partner—_because he knows this cannot be ignored_—to see a scowl on the familiar face—_because he likes to think that he is the first and only_. Before he can explain, slender fingers are wrapped around his tender throat, he is pushed against the pillow once more—_so much rage behind the actions but the Turk is not afraid_. "Why!"

He doesn't answer right away, not until the fingers are loosened but the glare does not lighten. "Rufus…"

"Do you love him," the younger blond growls heartlessly—_because he does not understand_.

There is a head shake from the Turk and a lie—_because this a game_. "No."

"Good," he murmurs—_because he does not pick on up the lie, because he does not know the game_. "We have business to take care of."

Nothing more is said between them. They stand and dress—_because this is not a romance novel, this is real life_—before the scent of sex is covered with cologne—_the same that was give to a director years ago_. The Turk is shot a look—_because the new blond is heartless_—and is forced to be left in the cold, alone. He watches the retreating figure of the mirror image of his former partner exit the room, his coffee colored eyes turn to the dresser—_because he knows what lurks in there and he misses it_. He moves without noticing—_because he just wants to be reminded_—and opens the drawer—_because he needs to see it_.

He pulls out a tattered piece of a paper—_because this is the only truth in his life_—and brushes his bare fingertips against it. He can almost feel the warmth graze his pallid cheek—_because that's all he wants_—and the sound of a charming voice echoing through his skull—_because that's one of the many things he longs for_. He unfolds the paper, shivering at the handwriting that is carefully scripted on the sheet—_because it brings back memories, ones he has tried to forget_. Yet as his sights linger on the words, he feels a warmth and confusion—_because this wasn't supposed to be a romance novel_.

_

* * *

_

**.**_oo3_Truth**.**

* * *

_Dear Tseng of the Turks, _

_It seems odd to start a letter with your name rather then calling you, waiting for you in the apartment room, but we both know it is impossible. I still roll over and expect to smell gunpowder and lead, maybe even a hint of blood—_because that is your smell_. I long to hear a door open and see you standing there, with that look in your eyes, the one that proves you are not as heartless as you claim to be. However, life has certainly taken quite a turn. _

_We went through much in our years of playing that game, which only started because you wanted him and I had taken after his and _my_ father. We found a dangerous game, while I played another, but you found it easy to bring me back. Your entry into my life breathed a new life into me, a part of me did not want the vengeance that brought me to you in the first place. You gave me an excitement each new day and I looked forward to each time I could see you—_even if it broke the rules you set into play_. _

_This was not to be a romance—_because we were living in a real world, where you said that romance wasn't real_. It was difficult to not fall in love with angel but I knew, even then, that it was not meant to be. Even if you kept me sane and at peace when we were together, you could not save me from my own destiny, the one that I am currently living. I was enthralled by the beauty of you, bewitched by the twinkle in your eye when you knew something I did not, and overcome by the passion that your cool body gave mine. _

_I know it was not a romance, _it was sex_, but you will always be a place in my heart that will be fondly remembered, even if I am not in yours. _

_I remember the expression the last time I saw you, when you learned the truth—_that I was dying_—and I will never forget it. It has been years since then and now, I can feel in my very core that the end is near. I can hear the voices of the puppy and your young companion _(I believe you called her Cissnei)_, and I know what I must do, but first, I had to tell you this—_because our game is now over, it has been for so long_. I never had a chance to tell you the truth, but now I may, because it is over. _

_I loved the feel of your skin against mine. I loved the way you growled and moaned my name. I loved your accent with my title when we were in public. I loved the way you looked, bruised lipped and beautiful as you slipped on your uniform. I loved you and _always _will. _

_I wish you the brightest future and I do hope you find all you are looking for, because, _my beautiful angel_, you deserve more then pain. _

_With all my _love_,_  
_Lazard Deusericus. _

Slender hands—_ones used solely for killing_—folded the letter, the raven haired beauty places it back into the bottom of the drawer. He closes it—_because now he is reminded, because he cannot be caught with it_—and turns to the door. He moves gracefully yet as if he were a corpse—_because that's what he feels like_—and opens the door, exiting slowly. His eyes scan the halls, knowing that he very well has a mission waiting for him with a man that mirrored his lover—_because they weren't playing the game anymore, because even if it wasn't a romance, there was still passion_.

The walk down the hall is uneventful—_because he is alone_—and he soon stands before his young partner. Blue eyes that reminded him of the past glared up at him, the Turk only stands there stoic as ever and waits. There is a twisted smirk—_one that makes him wish for the charming smiles he longs to see_—and words that are as cold as ice. "Be careful, Tseng." He is handed a folder—_one that will led him to pain and bloodshed_.

* * *

.Author's Note.

* * *

This did not turn out as how I expect. Truly, I wanted it to be how the beginning was, but as I started writing, it began to take a turn towards something else. This is the first thing I've written in years that did not have a complete and utter abuse or something of the nature._ (Because I ship RufusTseng more then anything.)_ It's based loosely off a series I was running on livejournal, each story contained _"three truths, three lies"_ and there were many of them, all different pairings. So I decided, instead of bringing all that over here, I would just write new ones. This has to be the first of them that turned out completely different then I had originally thought.

Yes, there is a few scenes and hints to things that happened in the games. Such as Tseng and Zack's first meeting, then ending one is Tseng's _Death_. I don't know if I completely like it or not, but I'm not going to rant off about how it sucks, because there are areas that I do like.

Reviews are nice but you don't have to.


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